


Blueprints

by AngeNoir



Series: Inktober 2017 [5]
Category: The Losers (2010)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Steampunk, M/M, Non-Sexual Intimacy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-06
Updated: 2017-10-06
Packaged: 2019-01-09 16:47:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,201
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12280512
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AngeNoir/pseuds/AngeNoir
Summary: Jake Jensen cannotbelievePooch wouldn't buy him that transmitter. Luckily, he's got an amazing boyfriend who can fix that.Inktober Drabble 5 = Universe: The Losers / List: Steampunk / Prompt: The Machine





	Blueprints

**Author's Note:**

> Written for inktober, based on the prompt "The Machine" from a Steampunk list. (You can see [and prompt me!] my initial post about my inktober writings [here](http://outercorner.tumblr.com/post/165938959460/so-i-am-gonna-be-trying-this-inktober-thing-but).)
> 
> Late again, but longer? if that helps. also I'm falling asleep trying to post this, so there's that too

If there’s one thing Jensen didn’t like, it was whiners, but he was damned close to whining as he stood in front of the beautiful, intricate machinery and practically salivated on the display glass.

“It’s not even like we don’t have the money,” he grumbled, craning his head every which way to try and grasp the hidden depths of the steadfast little creature.

“It’s a machine, Jensen,” Pooch sighed, shaking his head. He had a small basket tucked in the corner of his arm, his top hat quite proper and upright, instead of its usual, rakish tilt. In that basket was, Jensen knew, small cogs, wires, soldering tools, and glass tubes to repair their convertible. It was only the two of them at the market. Well, not entirely true; they had protection, of course. They were their fort’s mechanics and machinists; they were protected at all costs, especially with the encroaching spread of the Blighted threatening the countryside and all decent gentlefolk who were merely trying to travel.

So it was just them two, plus their escort, loitering behind them a bit of a ways back, and their high watch, perched somewhere with a rifle Jensen himself had designed to be incredibly accurate over the most unheard of distances.

He may or may not have designed that gun specifically for its current owner.

“Look, it can send messages  _through the air_! It doesn’t need the wires that a telegraph needs; it emits low bursts of electronic waves that register on a twin device that can be a whole country away! Imagine how this device can change the world!” Jensen enthused, reluctantly stepping away from it to follow behind Pooch’s steps through the crowded market. Market day was held on neutral ground, where everyone was supposed to be safe - but ‘supposed to be’ and ‘actually is’ were two very different concepts. Still, in any case, people from all over the borough would congregate on market days, buying and selling and picking up the latest gossip from one another.

“Don’t we have enough left over? Can’t we just buy this  _one_  thing?”

“It’s a fucking  _machine_ , Jensen,” Pooch huffed. “It won’t be worth anything because we don’t have long, far away colonies or townships under our name. We just want to protect our land, to the best of our ability, without any complications. Even an outsider like you should have gotten that vibe.”

Scowling at the ground, Jensen scuffed the top of his boot against the dusty ground and plodded behind Pooch as the man flitted to another stall, picking through the pieces of machinery, looking for the pieces he’d need to keep the fort’s water pump in good condition, the locking mechanism working smoothly, and things that Jensen would need to concoct a new weapon or gun.

Jensen was tired of creating weapons and guns.

“Are you going to sulk the entire rest of Market Day? If it will cheer you up, I could buy you some honey-glazed dumplings. You love those,” Pooch remarked, voice distracted as he weighed one piece in his hand.

And the thing was, Jensen  _knew_  he was whining, and he hated it. But that machine had such promise, such  _potential_. He kept sneaking glances over his shoulder at it.

As one of the machinists in the fort, Jensen earned a fairly hefty salary, and was afforded certain privileges. However, Jensen was also one of the very few outsiders - his pale skin put him at a complete disadvantage, and he cursed it daily - and so that salary and those privileges were often truncated in certain ways that made it hard to really accumulate the amount of wealth he would need to purchase the machine.

For the best, really, he told himself sadly.

The rest of Market Day, he shadowed Pooch religiously and silently - enough so that his silence was apparently unnerving. By the end of the day, Pooch climbed into the autocart and jabbed a finger in Jensen’s direction. “I am going to rest my eyes. You are going to pull yourself together. It’s just a machine, Jensen. It’s not worth this amount of effort and distaste you are putting into it.” Budging himself into the corner so that the carriage part of their autocart was cradling his body, he folded his arms. “Take some rest. If the road is with us, and the weather kind, we’ll get back to the fort before sundown.”

A more prefect jinx, there never was. Instead, less than a half hour in, the thunder cracked and rain poured in sheets down over the windows and the door. Jensen pressed his face against the glass.

He had been nomadic, traveling from place to place, until he had been captured by Fort Ak’saar. The fort itself was one of the top military forts of the area; the people hadn’t been entirely friendly, but he hadn’t expected anything differently. It had taken them the space of a day to check out his story - that he was no spy, nor was he interested in stealing from their resources - and then they turned him loose.

He had asked to become a part of their community.

The cart’s door opened and a slim, short young man with a planter-style hat slipped in, dripping wet and looking like a drowned rat. Underneath his fedora, Pooch cracked open his eyes, registered the man’s presence, and closed his eyes again.

Heedless of his own clothing, Jensen motioned for the young man to come sit next to him to get warm. Their escort, the muscle of their protection, was probably in the driver’s box, but this sniper had always seemed content to travel on the top of the autocart, relaxing in nature.

At least, until nature decided to try and drown him.

Unbuttoning his jacket, Jensen shrugged it off his shoulders and handed it to the young man.

If Jensen was being totally honest, the only reason he had asked to join the community was because of this man’s whiskey-colored eyes, glowing dark skin that contrasted so much with Jensen’s own pale skin. It was because of the confident way this young man - either Jensen’s age or younger - stripped his field weapon and cared for his firearms. It was because the head of the community, a powerful, scarred man named Roque, had looked at the young man as if they were equals, instead of an employer to an employee.

Licking his lips, the young man - Cougar was his nickname, though Jensen had not once heard anyone call him anything different - wormed close to Jensen’s side, burrowing into Jensen’s heat. Something weirdly stiff poked Jensen in the ribs

“Ah,” the young man hummed, reaching in to pull out an oilskin pouch.

Inside the pouch were the blueprints of the machine Jensen had marveled at in the market. Touched beyond all belief, he unsuccessfully tried to wipe away the evidence of his emotions on his face. “This is, this is amazing, Cougar.”

Cougar hummed, dropping his head heavy on Jensen’s shoulder. “Too hard to carry it outside,” he mumbled.

“Yes, I’m aware, wow,” Jensen said softly, reaching over to tuck Cougar’s hair back behind Cougar’s ear. “Man, how did I ever get so lucky?”


End file.
